One For All
by Silence-Speaker
Summary: So the streets weren't exactly friendly...they were a darn sight better off with the scum of London than they had been. Plus everything is a little better when you have friends to guard your back. It was luck that brought Carolyn and Arthur to Douglas and Martin (and vice versa) but it sure wasn't luck that kept them together. MJN as part of the Homeless Network.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Cabin Pressure. Woe is me.

Snippet form.

Non Linear.

###

1 -

It was a completely different world to the one she had grown up in. The world of soft dresses, pretty princess stories, warmth, full bellies and the ability to while away a day carefree...that world was lost to her.

This was a harsher one, cold, always filled with biting winds, gnawing hunger, shaking cold and terror around every corner.

The only warmth that remained to her was Arthur.

He kept up her spirits when they had sunk into negatives (which admittedly was quite a lot, she could never be called an optimist), but more so than that he gave her _purpose_.

It was for Arthur's sake they had left the pretty house on the hill and the sweet shop filled with delicious rewards that were so far away from their life now to be laughable.

She couldn't regret it though. Not even for the sticky swirly lollies that always sat above the counter, eye catching and deliciously decadent. Arthur was her brother, her younger brother. It was her duty to look out for him, which was why she had gathered up a few important things of theirs one evening, snuck into his room, ordered him to dress like he was going in the snow and to follow her silently as they left the house with the wisteria creeping up the walls.

She missed things, of course she did. (She even sometimes, although she'd never admit it, missed her older sister Ruth.) It was hard being an adult at fourteen, responsible for a child and without the security of a nice home to return to. And sometimes she thought running away had been the worst idea; surely they could have done something else? Anything? But then she'd look to Arthur whose smile had dimmed in the honeysuckle scented garden, whose good-natured babbling had curtailed in the lilac painted rooms and she regretted _nothing_.

Arthur laughed again and if that wasn't reward enough for braving the gritty streets of London then she didn't know what was.

Not that she'd ever admit that out loud.

She had a reputation to keep.

###

3 -

"-look, I still don't see-"

"You never do, John. Now be quiet, I've got to talk to an expert."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Holmes."

"Who are you?"

"Not now, John. Ah, you've been waiting."

"Yes, I have Mr Holmes."

"So, you've got the information I want, do hurry up about it, I haven't got all day."

"Yes, well, about the information...the price has gone up."

"What? Why?"

"Because it's something you want, that I have. Funny world isn't it?"

"Look, here, I knew I had a twenty in my pocket, this cover it? Sherlock, you might want to be a bit _politer_."

"Boring. Anyway, we're in a hurry, aren't you always complaining when I don't tell Lestrade straight away who the murderer is?"

"Interrupting a lovers tiff am I?"

"For Gods sak- look, I am not his boyfriend. I'm not gay!"

"I never _said_ you were-"

"This is tedious. I _need_ that information."

"Well, I suppose if it's _that_ important...Conduit Street, I'm sure you can work out the exact address yourself."

"Here, for your time, buy your younger brother some new trainers, his are more sock than shoe."

"Thanks Mr Holmes, though he isn't my brother."

"There's always _something_."

#

4 -

"Oi! You there, what are you two doing here?" Lestrade barked out with more snap than usual. 28 hours without sleep, no coffee worth drinking (stupid decaf stuff, what was the point of coffee if not for the caffeine?), running round London like a headless chicken and dealing with his royal highness turned mild mannered men (and women) into monsters.

Just because Lestrade was the person who dealt the most with Sherlock in the Police force did not mean he was in any way _used_ to him. Sherlock was rather like a lit firework and you never knew if he'd explode in your face or not.

The two lads watched his approach with the wary yet cocky expression Lestrade hated. It meant they'd dealt with coppers before and were less than likely to be biddable.

The taller and broader of the two stuck his hands in his pockets whilst the other, scrap of a lad with curly red hair, shifted from one foot to the other.

"What's up guv?" The taller asked, a wilful smirk twisting his lips, his head tilting just so for a lock of brown hair to fall charmingly into his eyes. Lestrade was unimpressed.

"This is a crime scene, what are you two doing here? We cordoned off the area over an hour ago."

"Mr Holmes told me to get my brother some new shoes." The adolescent shrugged. He couldn't have been more than eighteen and Lestrade was doubtful he had seen _fifteen_ despite the scruff of beard and broad frame. Some lads grew early, Lestrade knew, and it would only be in the boys best interests to seem older than he was.

Now that the kid mentioned it, the red haired kids shoes were in complete disrepair, they'd probably been third hand by the time he'd laid hands on them.

"Well, this street is closed. You'll have to come another day, there's a good shop down the road on the right, it sells decent trainers."

"Thanks guv." The boys slipped past him and Lestrade was only slightly surprised to feel a tickle at his thigh, where the oldest one slipped a piece of paper into his pocket discretely.

It was a note from Sherlock, it wasn't the first time he'd used random people to deliver messages.

"You know, the police are here to help." He called out to the retreating duo. A white toothed grin met his remark.

"We don't need help." The taller boy laughed, nudging his elbow against the red haired lad who was frowning in concentration as he fought not to trip in his shoes that were hanging together by less than a thread.

"Even so." Lestrade murmured to himself.

Some children he saw on the street he called social services for. Other children he didn't.

It wasn't protocol, not by the book by any standards...but Lestrade knew that in some cases people were better off without their lives being interfered with and Sherlock's homeless network was filled with people who were almost better off living day to day in the bustle of London, they thrived in the seedy underbelly.

Not most of them, not even half, but some.

Lestrade hoped those two kids had enough grit and luck to make it.


	2. Chapter 2

And because I forgot to put this in the first chapter: Inspired by the prompt that had Douglas and Martin as brothers in the homeless network and Carolyn and Herc hiring Sherlock and John to solve a crime.

Disclaimer.

Sherlock warnings apply.

Small spoiler for series three of Sherlock, blink and you'll miss it.

###

7 -

"Hello? Are you one Miss Molly Hooper?"

Molly nearly jumped at the unexpected voice in her lab. No one else was supposed to be in there at the moment but she supposed one of the technicians could have come down to sort out the light in the corner of the room that always flickered and never turned on the first time you flicked the switch. That would be nice, the sputtering of the light had been getting annoying and she was sure her headache had been because of that. Although the four cups of coffee may have played a part.

"Yes?" She answered the question with a question, cursing her inability to sound firm when wrong footed.

A teenage girl stepped out of the gloom, her hair cropped short, her jeans neat except from the patch of mud at the hem and her features sharp. Molly felt the girl could have slipped through the shadows without anyone noticing her.

"A mutual acquaintance of ours asks for you to follow me." The adolescent said, slipping her hands into her pockets and leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

Molly dropped the file she was holding on the floor and hurried to pick it up, slinging her lad coat onto its hook and grabbing her jacket. It occurred to her that this could be a trap but then she shoved that thought away. There was no way she wasn't going, just in case it was _him_ and he needed her help.

"What's your name?" Molly asked curiously as she hurried to keep up with the girls quick steps.

She was given a suspicious look but apparently was deemed harmless enough as the girl answered her.

"Carolyn. Come on, we were supposed to be there two minutes ago, I had a bugger getting past security, I swear Barts was easier to sneak into last time."

Molly wasn't sure what she should have felt from that information. She went with shock but pushed past it.

"You, uh, sneak into Barts often then?" She asked in what she hoped was a casual enquiry. Carolyn gave her a rather eloquent look all teenagers seemed to have perfected. It was a 'oh-my-god-I-can't-believe-you-said-something-that-stupid-don't-you-ever-use-the-internet' look. Molly was rather immune to it; it was one of Sherlock's favourite expressions.

It didn't come as a surprise when she wasn't given a verbal answer.

They darted through the side streets of London in silence, only broken by the beep of a horn as Carolyn gave them the cheeky finger and occasional curses from the people they only barely missed walking (running) into.

Carolyn ducked into a tube station and Molly followed, out of breath and wondering if she would get a reply if she asked where they were going.

Probably not.

Carolyn ducked behind a construction workers tent. Molly paused for a second but a deceptively strong hand reached out, grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her inside.

It was a small tent, not built big enough for a man to stand inside comfortably. However both Molly and Carolyn were small women so they fit in snugly.

Carolyn tapped a rhythm against the ground then stepped back, pressing Molly against the canvas. A square of the floor tilted upwards revealing a shock of red hair and a grin.

"Come on, he's waiting." The boy spoke to Carolyn, his eyes only briefly flicking over her, before he ducked down and disappeared. Carolyn sat on the edge, swinging her legs into the hole before dropping down. Molly could still see the top of her hair so it wasn't a deep drop. Even so.

She grimaced as she followed the girl's example.

The boy moved past her and tapped the wooden boards, setting them back to how they had been before, as though the hole in the ground wasn't there, it certainly wasn't visible when you entered the tent.

Molly looked around the brick lined tunnel. It was uncomfortably narrow and she was sure the ground beneath her feet was something she didn't want to think about but there was no unpleasant smell, no sewage and no rats (that she could see).

It didn't fit her mental image of a tunnel in London, let alone one next to the tubes.

"Come on." The boy urged, his hair the brightest thing in the tunnel apart from the torch Carolyn held, having wrested control of it off the boy.

Molly spent the rest of the walk through the curiously clean tunnel in silence, simply looking at her surroundings and eavesdropping on her companions who seemed to have forgotten entirely about her. Well, they occasionally glanced back to see if she was still there.

"What were you doing at the entrance, Martin? I thought Douglas was supposed to be manning it."

"Hey! I am perfectly capable of memorising a knock! Anyway, Douglas said he'd take me to Heathrow to watch planes if I took over his shift."

"Oh, Martin, you do know he was planning on taking you anyway, he's milked that promise for all its worth by getting 'favours' from you. Honestly, I thought distracting that woman with the lemon was going to be the last straw."

"But I really want to see the planes again."

"Why can't you take yourself? I bet Arthur would go if you asked him. And promised ice cream. That boy will do anything for ice cream."

"I wanted Douglas to come too. He likes planes, he actually listened when I was telling him about the fighter jets."

"Martin, he doesn't like the planes, he likes the airhostesses."

"I know that, but he likes planes as well! Not as much maybe, and I can't see why planes are much more interesting than a woman in a tight outfit who won't stop giggling-"

"I don't think she was an actual airhostess."

"Oh. Well, still. Anyway, he said he'd take me tomorrow, so he can't get me to agree to much more in less than twenty-four hours."

"This is _Douglas_ we're talking about. I take it Arthur is pestering our guest?"

"He was just ignoring Arthur. I didn't think that was possible."

Molly blinked as they emerged from the cramped tunnel (she was rather glad she was small, she hadn't had to hunch much), the light somewhat shocking after the dimness. She doubted it was a very bright light but right now it seemed to sear her eyeballs.

She blinked away spots and took in her surroundings. It was a fairly small room, square, with tunnels leading off from it but there was enough room to stand tall. A pile of blankets took over one corner, an odd cluster of knickknacks took over another and a few dozen glow in the dark stars had been affixed to the ceiling in a haphazard pattern.

There were two boys already in the room, one who could almost be called an adult, reading half a newspaper and another who was humming to himself as he carefully glued bits of the second half of the newspaper together.

There was another person sitting in the corner, looking through various papers.

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, despite having known who had got Carolyn to bring her here. She hadn't seen him in months and with the rest of the world thinking him dead and publishing those awful stories...

Well, it was a relief to see him alive. And healthy. Ish.

"Ah, Molly, late. I need the autopsy files on these people."

Business. As usual then.

She resisted the urge to slap him for his flippant tone, as though he hadn't disappeared off the face of the earth for nearly a _year_.

Anyway, she'd probably do more damage to herself than him if she gave into the urge. Those cheekbones were razor sharp.

###

6 -

"You got room in your safe house for one more?"

"It'll cost you Mr Holmes."

"Of course."

"Thanks a bunch. Though I warn you, we're moving quarters next week, can't stay in one place too long."

"Ah, and I suppose there'll be a new fee?"

"Of course, we're moving up in life, premium housing don't you know."

"I take it your little red haired friend needs a new coat."

"Wrong again, Mr Holmes, however my other friend wouldn't mind acquiring a coat for _her_ younger brother."

"Of course! Oh, obvious. I should have seen."

"You want to go to the five star digs now?"

"No. I'll meet you there later. Do inform the others."

"Will do. Can't have them getting trigger happy on you."

"Please. I doubt any of you know how to handle a knife let alone any of you actually _seeing_ a gun."

"I've seen plenty...the Tower of London for example. There's more than one room devoted to weaponry."

"That hardly count-In fifteen seconds you'll want to run. That man over there has just realised he's missing the wallet you liberated."

"Thanks Mr Holmes."

"Three, two, one..."

"Oi! You!"

"Right on time."

###

5 -

"Hey! You! Mr Holmes' friend!"

John closed his eyes and continued walking. If this was another bloody someone from the press he was going to punch something. And by something he meant someone.

"Oi! Wait up!"

John came to a stop and waited, feeling the peculiar mix of rage and crushing grief that any mention of Sherlock brought bubbling up to the surface. He felt constantly on edge, so close to rage and terrifying blankness.

A young lad, who looked slightly familiar, darted in front of him. He looked just the right age to be a starting journalist/reporter. John tightened his fists.

"You're a doctor, right? A medical one?" The boy asked. John blinked.

"Yes." He answered quietly.

"I, uh, know it's a lot to ask but could you come and look at my friend? He's hurt his ankle." The adolescent looked rather anxious.

It was so far from what John had expected him to say that it took him a while to reboot his brain. He glanced longingly towards the tube station (he was only ten minutes away from home and a nice hot cup of tea after a tiring day at the surgery) then glanced back at the teenager.

"Why haven't you gone to your local GP?" He asked, guessing at the answer. Most of the people who knew him through Sherlock weren't exactly reputable.

"We can't. They'll call social services. Please." John had a feeling that the word 'please' wasn't usually in the lads dictionary.

"Alright. There won't be much I can do if it's broken; I don't have an x-ray machine in my pocket. But I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks a bunch. Here, follow me."

And that was how John found himself hurrying after the kid, darting through back alleys, through construction sites where they got yelled at as they fled and across busy roads. Through the pulse in his veins and the thump of his heart – quickened with the exercise – John felt truly alive, a feeling he had missed since Sherlock-

He raised an eyebrow when they had to duck under a wire fence to get into some school grounds. He was taken through a small bunch of trees and to a large shed.

"What's your name?" He asked as the kid picked the lock of the shed with disconcerting ease.

"Douglas."

John noted the absence of a surname. And the fact he wasn't asked his name. Although, given the recent press Douglas probably knew it anyway. If Douglas was the boys actual name.

Inside the shed it was cleaner than John remembered from his school days, less mud on the floor and the equipment was nicer. Newer.

The centre of the small room was clear of items, no trolleys ect. John noted most of the stuff had been pushed against the wall to clear more space.

On the floor, in the middle, atop a pile of blankets sat two other boys and a girl. They were teenagers, the lot of them but John doubted any of them were adults when he took a closer look.

There was a small collection of library books at the side too.

"You're back." The girl stated.

"Sorry to say. Were you expecting the queen?" Douglas retorted dryly.

"You certainly carry enough pomp." She returned with a grin that had far more teeth than a smile typically should hold.

"You're the doctor chappy, the one who worked with Mr. Holmes." The girl said slowly, looking him up and down. John had the uncomfortable feeling he was being assessed. He straightened his spine, fighting the urge to stand to attention as though she was an officer in the army.

"Yes."

"I saw you round sometimes. He was a good tipper."

John fought down the lump that rose in his throat and simply nodded.

"Well? What are you doing waiting round for? Martin here has banged up his ankle." She ordered, indicating to the red haired boy at her side.

"Yeah! It's all swollen and sore looking-like the time Martin trapped Douglas' hand in the door." The yet unnamed boy said, sounding far too delighted.

John knelt to the ground and approached the boy whose ankle was propped up on another blanket. He didn't miss the fact he was watched beadily by four sets of eyes. He looked over the ankle – the boy's jeans were rolled up – from toes to knee.

"May I?" He asked holding out his hands. The girl eventually nodded. John waited until Martin nodded too before proceeding forward and gently running his fingertips over the reddened and swollen appendage.

"This is going to hurt, but it'll only last a moment." He warned. Martin bit his lip but nodded again, silently. No sign of tears could be found on the little red heads face.

John, as carefully as he could, bent the limb to test the severity of the injury. Apart from one quiet hiss Martin was completely silent, his face screwed up with the pain.

"Alright, the hard parts over. Now, can you flex your toes for me?" Martin did so, wincing. "Alright, I think its a sprain, a nasty one too. It could be a fracture but I can't be sure without an x-ray. Are you really sure you can't go to a clinic?"

The girl bit her lip.

"We can't." Douglas said firmly.

John sighed but wasn't surprised.

"I can go and get some bandages and wrap this up, a splint wouldn't go amiss eith-" He cut himself off as a pile of bandages was shoved his way along with some old fashioned splints. John raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he took the items.

"I used to want to go into medicine." Douglas explained with a shrug as John carefully set the ankle, snapping the splints to the right size.

"I wanna be a pilot." Martin piped up, his voice strained as John applied pressure.

"So do I!" The unnamed boy chimed in eagerly.

"Well, I certainly _don't_ want to run a sweet shop." The girl said tartly.

"Awww...but Carolyn, running a sweet shop would be brilliant! Imagine, all the toblerones you could eat! And seeing people's bright faces when they entered the shop! And you could name it My Shop Now, to keep the M and N."

"Arthur, it would certainly not be 'brilliant'. And the point of a sweet shop is to sell sweets, not eat them all yourself. And we're only called MTN to spite Gordon; it wouldn't work if we were a sweet shop." Carolyn disagreed.

"Well, it sort of would work, because it'd be spiting him saying 'look we've got an awesometastic sweet shop that's much better than the apartment, so there'." Arthur argued.

"That isn-"

"Arthur, if we ever own a sweet shop you can certainly call it MSN, although it might get mistaken for that online chat site." Douglas diffused the argument just as John finished tucking the end of the bandage neatly.

"Well, that's you sorted. If you find me in a couple of weeks I can change the bandage and look over it again." John said. Douglas, who had been watching John's hands intently throughout the entire process nodded.

"Mr Dr Sir would you like a peach?" Arthur asked, holding out a perfectly ripe fruit.

"They're nectarines, Arthur, not peaches. Peaches have fuzzy skin." Martin corrected.

"Yeah, but they kind of taste the same. I just thought these were shaved peaches." Evidently Martin didn't know what to say to that.

"No thanks, I'm alright." John murmured. He wasn't going to take food from these kids.

"Just take one." Carolyn said irritably. "We got a whole crate of them, nicked it while that awful grocers back was turned."

John was about to refuse again when he noticed the battered pride that she was trying to conceal. She, well Douglas really, had asked him for help and now she was repaying him in the only way she could because taking charity was not an option.

Quid pro quo.

Something about the reveal of this young woman's thoroughly dented pride set a different lump in John's throat to the one that was ever present since Sherlock's death.

A small hand reached out and put one of the nectarines into his lap. John looked up to see a shy smile directed his way under an unruly mop of red hair.

"Thank you." John murmured, taking the nectarine and, under four pairs of watchful eyes, he took a bite. Some juice ran down his chin and there was a faint taste of grit from the skin but the actual fruit was very nice.

John grinned at Arthur's giggle. Apparently an adult with juice running down their chin was a funny sight.

In fact, John thought as Arthur happily piled more of the fruits into his lap and he passed them back, it was probably the nicest nectarine he had ever tasted.

John got home late that evening, with a pocket full of 'peaches' he hadn't been able to refuse. He felt rejuvenated, it was nice being needed.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer.

Who was the young boy strapped to a bomb jacket in The Great Game?

Sherlock warnings apply.

###

2 -

Carolyn pasted on a smile as Gordon approached.

"Hey honey." He greeted with a peck to her cheek and a squeeze to her arse.

"Good day?" She asked handing him a beer.

"Thanks luv. Yeah, pretty lucrative." He winked at her, taking a swig. "How about your day?"

Carolyn sighed. A true smile twisting her lips. "Arthur managed to get his jacket stuck in an escalator. Which was completely-"

"Oh, I don't want to hear about that brother of yours. He's all you ever bloody harp about. Talk about something else for a change."

Carolyn felt the words frost in her throat. Gordon managed to lace subtle disdain into his voice every time he mentioned Arthur. And it stuck at Carolyn that she hadn't really noticed until Douglas pointed it out. She'd noticed Arthur being a bit quieter but...

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. She wasn't going to let Arthur live in another place filled with disdain and disappointment.

"Well, if you don't want to hear about Arthur, Martin managed to get into a fight with someone about the proper safety regulations of nasal trimmers-"

"Not him either. Or Douglas. Lord, woman, it's like your life revolves around those three nincompoops." Gordon interrupted again, pulling her over with him to the aged settee.

Gordon was a few years older than her (alright, about ten, twenty-six wasn't that much older) and he had been – to use Arthur's word – brilliant about letting her and Arthur live with him and join the gang. Gordon had lived on the streets too; he knew what it was like...

Carolyn was beginning to wonder if that was such a good thing after all.

"Come now, don't pout like that, come on a kiss'll make it all better." He pressed a beery kiss against her lips.

Carolyn pulled away, face aflame with suppressed anger.

She hadn't been pouting, she'd been scowling. Did Gordon think her some naive butterfly without enough brain cells to string a sentence together? Was she no more than a glorified doll to him?

Her mobile (courtesy of Gordon) rang and Carolyn fought with her new distaste for the machine as she answered it.

"Douglas? What is it?"

"It's Martin." He panted through the phone.

"What now?" Carolyn asked wearily. Between Gordon, Arthur, Martin and Douglas she was a little stretched for patience.

"It's serious."

She sat up straight, shoving away Gordon's arm when he tried to snatch away the phone and grope her. Douglas sounded uncharacteristically on edge.

"Look, he's been put in a bomb jacket. I can't do anything, there's a sniper lining up the shot, if he so much as twitches..."

Carolyn jumped to her feet ignoring Gordon's questions that quickly turned to yells as he defaulted into anger and slipping on her shoes, darting out the apartment complex due to be demolished.

"Where are you? Where's Martin? Arthur?" She asked quick fire.

"Martin's in an art gallery, standing in the loos by the window. The snipers got him in sight through said window; I can see the red laser dot. I think Martin's being forced to say things; he's got a phone thing and repeating what's written on it. I'm in the bus shelter opposite, I can't risk getting closer, the sniper might fire if he knows other people know Martin's whereabouts. Arthur's near me, ready to ring the police when I indicate for him to do so."

"Address! I need to know which street you're on!" Carolyn urged, trying to push down the horror rising in her stomach. Douglas sounded completely frazzled which was probably why he forgot to mention the address.

Adrenalin made her hands shake as she followed the directions, running along the Thames. It was adrenalin. Not fear, she told herself. Certainly not worry.

She skidded to a halt when she saw Arthur's white face, features drawn in terror as he held a mobile tightly in his grip.

Douglas was crouching in the shadows, eyes fixed on the small window through which they could just see red curls atop a milk white face as Martin mouthed out the words written on the screen he was holding.

Carolyn had never seen Douglas so ashen. In fact she rarely saw him without his customary cocky smirk.

When she and Arthur had first joined Gordon's gang most of the others had sneered, called her 'Gordon's bitch' behind their backs and uncomplimentary things about Arthur's mental state...Douglas had come up to her, and she had been prepared for a taunt or two, a snide comment. What she got was a smarmy enquiry as to whether she wanted to join him for a poker game with a pack of cards he had 'liberated'. She had asked if she won could she keep the cards.

That set the tone for their camaraderie.

And with Douglas came Martin. Not his younger brother by blood but far more so in heart.

Apparently Douglas had been 'commandeering' some apples when Martin attached himself 'limpet like' to him and never left.

Carolyn sensed there was far more to the story than that but she let it be. It was enough that Douglas understood what being an older sibling on the streets was like.

"He's crying." Douglas breathed, clutching the mobile far too tightly. Carolyn was worried it out break under the pressure.

"I can lip read some things, budge over just a bit so I can see better." Carolyn ordered. Shoving Douglas when he seemed to reluctant to relinquish his spot.

She peered over.

"'Nine...Eight...Seven'- Oh, God. It's a count down!" She exclaimed. "'Five...Four...Three...Two...'" She glanced at Douglas who would forever deny the tear that trickled down his face.

"Hang on! It's stopped! He's put down the phone thing he was reading from-he's saying something else- 'Please, is somebody there'-" Douglas didn't wait to hear the rest, he tore across the road and practically barrelled into the gallery, Carolyn right behind, Arthur too.

They stripped the heavy jacket off of Martin's shoulders as he trembled by the toilet sinks and tugged him out of the gallery with the speed of those running for their lives, half out their minds with terror.

Martin was shaking like a leaf; Carolyn fancied she could hear his bones rattling. She definitely could hear them creak when they each hugged him tightly in turn.

They left Gordon's after that, all four of them.

MTN, My Team Now.

###

8 -

John stared mournfully into his cup of tea. Greg Lestrade, sitting opposite him, appeared to be attempting to drown himself in his coffee.

All the while Mycroft and Sherlock continued to bicker.

John checked his phone in the vain hope that Mary had texted him for some reason with an excuse he could use to escape. Not that anyone would fall for it but he wasn't quite at the point where he began to make up excuses.

A sharp knock came from the doorway and immediately Sherlock and Mycroft shut up.

"I thought this was supposed to be private?" Greg remarked pointedly.

"Hmmm, no one is supposed to know we're here." Mycroft agreed, frowning.

The door swung open revealing four figures that John recognised immediately even though they were all older now, beginning to truly tap at the edges of adulthood.

They entered the room, shutting the door behind them.

John frowned. They looked a mess.

The tallest, the one with the smarmy voice...Douglas! That was it. Had a jagged scrape down one cheek and was walking with a pronounced limp. Martin, the boy John had bound the ankle for, had a bruise darkening his cheek and was ever so slightly hunched over his ribs. Carolyn, the girl turned woman, had a scrap of material on her arm which she was holding gingerly. The only one who appeared untouched was the boy who had thought nectarines were shaved peaches, Arthur, although his face looked odd without its smile.

"What on earth is your Victorian orphan homeless network doing here, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't be so dramatic. This is only part of the network, not the whole. And I was wondering the same." Sherlock answered, unable to stop arguing with his brother even for a second.

"We've got some information that might possibly be in your interest." Douglas answered.

"But why come here? Ah, it's in high demand. And you want to sell it for a high price...That's how you got beaten up." Sherlock answered his own questions with a piercing glance.

"Yeah. What we're asking for it isn't simply a tenner anymore." Douglas said cockily, squaring his jaw. Martin nodded, straightening his spine with a wince. Carolyn simply glared.

"Who says we're buying?"

Carolyn smirked.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you're after it."

"Well, go on then." Sherlock waved a hand.

"Ah, not so fast Mr Holmes. Payment up front then we'll dish the info."

"At least tell us what the information is about, then we can see if the price is worth it." John said quietly.

The four adolescents shared a glance, a flurry of nods and denials. Finally, Martin stepped forward.

"It's about the guy, t-the one w-who was s-st-strapping people t-to bombs a while back. A-and who made you fake your d-death..." Martin trailed off when everyone straightened in their seats, fixing him with far more intense looks than before. He shrank back a bit, until he was in line with Douglas again.

"What if we already have the information you're offering?"

"Then we're fucked." Carolyn said bluntly.

"What's your price?" John asked, ready to hear them out.

"A flat, doesn't have to be big, just room enough for us four. And college places. Plus flight school for Martin and an allowance for Arthur. And protection, we don't want to die from squealing." Douglas said.

Well, that was pretty steep.

"Wait a minute, we never agreed on the flight school thing-you're trying to protect me again! Look, I'm older now, I'll get the lessons by myself and if I can't then I'll do something else." Martin interjected furiously.

"You've always wanted to be a pilot, you're obsessed with planes. Just accept it you sod." Douglas argued back.

"No, that's unfair on the rest of you."

"Martin, shut up. Me and Douglas decided on it earlier." Carolyn ordered.

"But I don't want the unfairness either! Everyone should get an allowance, not just me." Arthur complained.

Sherlock and Mycroft ignored the bickering as they debated what their terms were. John tuned both groups out as he examined the four teens.

College places, that meant they were all at least sixteen or coming up for it. Unless they were just asking for the places in the future.

John pegged Martin and Arthur as about fourteen then glanced over the other two.

For all of Douglas' height and broad shoulders John rather thought he might fill out a bit if given three square meals a day...maybe nineteen. Probably eighteen. Carolyn was probably a similar age.

"Right, shut up, we have a deal for you four. If the information is worth our time." Sherlock interrupted. "But first, one question. Why is this personal for you? What has Moriaty done to garner such a desire for revenge that you four decide to spy on him?"

Douglas and Carolyn shared a glance.

Douglas fiddled with his mobile, bringing up a picture before silently showing it to the others.

It was a poorly taken photo but John could just make out red hair against a stark white face and a heavy, familiar jacket that swamped the boys small stature.

Douglas flicked to the next picture, this one of Arthur with a bruised face and bleeding forehead.

###

10 -

"Oh, she's _brilliant_."

"I don't think I've ever heard you speak like that about a woman before, Martin." Douglas grinned.

"Shut up." Martin retorted gazing up at the jet in awe.

"Are you going to stand there gawping all day or actually fly the dam thing?" Carolyn asked, hands on her hips.

"This was really generous of Mr Holmes, Mycroft that is. It's really nice of him." Arthur said with a grin, adjusting his uniform jacket.

"Generous? Hmmm, maybe. Or maybe he wanted a jet that can be repurposed for his own means under someone else's name? And that's not even taking into account the few 'special items' we have to fly to various countries and the occasional flight we are to take, the ghost flights that don't actually happen."

"Really? I thought we will actually fly those only we don't keep a record of it and the ATC will ignore it because Mycroft had fingers in every ticklish spot."

"I think you mean 'fingers in every pie' Arthur."

"Really? But that would make the pie a little gross. I don't want someone poking their fingers in my pie."

"Oh, _Arthur_."

"Can we call it M-something-N? It's not a sweet shop but it's pretty close, don't you think?"

"It isn't anything like a sweet shop!" Martin denied sounding scandalised.

"Why not." Douglas shrugged. "I like the sound of MJN."

"My Jet Now. Fitting."

###

9 -

"I guess, I guess we won't see each other for a while..."

"Not until Christmas."

"Promise we'll all meet up then?"

"Hoards of scantily clad women couldn't keep me away."

"_Douglas_!"

"It's a bit brilliant, this, isn't it? Apart from the fact we're all separating. That's not brilliant at all."

"Yes. Plus it's much safer this way...And think about it, where else are we going to get a real apprenticeship for the very things we want to do? Plus a promise for work later on?"

"Well, Mr Holmes apparently."

"Which one?"

"Well, I think this was organised by the older one. I know I have a few 'covert' things I'm supposed to look out for."

"Oh, Douglas, don't get yourself in trouble..."

"No worries. I'm sure you'll be a proper pilot in no time, Martin."

"Do you really think I'll make it?"

"Of course."


End file.
